


One Missed Call

by Kajeayn



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kajeayn/pseuds/Kajeayn
Summary: As overwhelming as raising three infants alone is, it’s easier then to stop texting a number that won’t text back.





	One Missed Call

The phone screen is bright as the sun in the dark of his room, glaring bright against his squinted eyes, piercing his lids. One missed call. He’s barely decided to ignore it before a text alert blips, and he opens it before thinking it through. 

 

_ Wish you were here.  _

 

He sits up enough to throw it across the room, barely registering the smack of it hitting the wall as he rolls over, pulling his pillow over his head. 

 

If he’d known it was the last text he’d get from her, he might have answered. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

It’s a week later, and the boys are screaming. 

 

They’re always screaming. Screaming, or asleep. Every article he’s looked at has told him this is normal for newborns. 

 

Especially for ones without a mother around. 

 

He does what he can to replicate what he reads. 

 

His is not their mother’s voice, it’s too pitchy, it’s too garbled, but he sings to them anyway. His is not their mother’s heartbeat, it’s too unsteady, too broken, but he holds them to his chest anyway. His hands are larger and rougher, but they are never far. 

 

He’s walking with Huey’s face at his neck, the hatchling sobbing inconsolably, Donald’s hand gently patting his back, long numb to the movement when he nearly trips over something. He freezes, glancing down at the hard gray form peeking out under one foot. 

 

He picks it up in one hand, sitting on the edge of his bed, Huey’s cries suddenly very far away as he flips it open, staring at words almost forgotten. His fingers hover over the keypad, shaking as he stares until his eyes burn. 

 

He blinks, and he’s already typing. 

 

_ We miss you. _

 

* * *

 

 

It is three am, they are two weeks old and it’s the first time they have all slept for longer than an hour. 

 

It’s two hours. 

 

His ears feel like they’re full of cotton. His eyes are gritty from staying open so long. He blinks and his vision flickers to black and white.

 

His eyes burn as they stare at the screen of his phone, furiously tapping away. 

 

_ Dewey has your eyes.  _

 

He can’t hear anything but his own breathing, loud in his own ears.   
  


_ Louie has your dimples.  _

 

_ Huey cries even more than I do.    _

 

He writes it because he can taste salt. He didn’t think he had anything left to cry, but he can feel water running down his beak. He wonders if he has permanent lines on his face now, grooves from tear tracks. Every tear has started to feel the same. 

 

_ I love them so much. I can’t sleep but I love them so much.  _

 

His fingers are wet. 

 

_ Wish you were here.  _

  
  


* * *

 

The days have blurred. Time is marked by feedings, diaper changes, by walking up and down the tiny hall of the houseboat and patting and rubbing backs until his fingers go numb, singing and speaking until he can’t recognize his own voice. 

 

A boat is not a place to raise newborns, but the manor is a graveyard and one he won’t visit. Ship horns wake the babies often. They can’t sleep through storms. Once, Donald could sleep through a hurricane, and now he wakes if there is too much silence. 

 

His phone is never out of reach. 

 

No one calls or texts him. There is no one here to answer. Donald is gone, a walking shell that is too busy and tired to grieve moving robotically in his place. 

 

As overwhelming as raising three infants alone is, it’s easier then to stop texting a number that won’t text back. 

 

It is three am, and he is outside and watching the water lap at the docks. The sky is a heavy blanket, pressing heavily on him, suffocating as it blots out the stars and moon. The only light comes from his phone, flipping open and shut, open and shut. He breathes in and the air is so heavy that it enters his lungs like lead, weighing him down. 

 

The phone pressed to his ear feels cold. 

 

_ You’ve reached Della Duck! I’m not here right now, so leave a message after the beep.  _

 

The beep echoes for what feels like an eternity. 

 

He hangs up, dials again.

 

_ You’ve reached Della Duck! I’m not here right now, so leave a message after the beep. _

 

The phone clicks as he closes it, opens it again .

 

_ You’ve reached Della Duck! I’m not here right now, so leave a message after the beep. _

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  


It is three am, the sky is clear, and the ocean churns in a strong wind. It froths and boils, whirling chaotically, throwing itself with wild abandon against the boat, slapping hard against the sides. The boat rocks under his feet, wind dragging at his feathers and clothes, snatching his breath from him. The water swallows all sound, smothers his sobs before they travel. 

 

_ The number you have reached has been disconnected.  _

 


End file.
